


Again

by Lynchy8



Series: Fun (and sad!) little drabbles [14]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Face Slapping, M/M, One Shot, Oral, PWP, R speaks Latin, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1336756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: what if Enjolras slapped Grantaire in anger or frustration, and instead of retaliation, R asked him to do it again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [epeolatry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolatry/gifts).



> First canon era fic. Enjoy!

Enjolras cast his eye around the busy back room of the Musain. The room was alight with candles and noise, men bright-eyed with potential and intent. To his immediate right, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were bent over a pile of papers and Courfeyrac was talking at great length, something having evidently stirred his blood, while Combeferre by turn nodded or shook his head.

Aside from those two however, the room was not as entirely focused as Enjolras might like. He was not blind to the fact that over in the far corner a vaudeville was being sketched out by two members of the group Enjolras was not entirely familiar with, although they took great effort to give the impression that they sketched the streets of Paris, perhaps looking for likely places for a rally.

Nor was Enjolras deaf to the conversation that Bahorel and Joly were engaged in over a game of dominoes. It was undoubtedly about women rather than Bahorel’s connections with the other student groups that were scattered throughout Paris, though he was certain both would protest were enquiries to be made.

Prouvaire, recognised by the ringing of his laugh, was more likely than not discussing Olympus rather than oligarchy. Enjolras would have smiled at that if he had a mind to but he did not; Enjolras was in no mood for smiling.

He was greatly troubled as time marched upon them. If they were to win, if they were to have a chance, then they needed to be prepared for whatever awaited them. However, progress was slow. There was still no word from the sculptors and artisans as to which way their sympathies were bent. Some of the guilds were reticent to offer their support, although as Combeferre often pointed out, they had not pledged their allegiance to the King either, so that was something.

His eyes were sore from lack of sleep and his body protested greatly at being placed upon such a hard chair for such a protracted stretch of time. Combeferre had been looking over to him and he knew that if he did not move by his own volition soon, then he would have to suffer a lecture and be forced to his bed, and it was surely far easier and more pleasant to go by way of the former rather than the latter. So he rose from his position, pressed a hand to his friends' shoulders and bid them all good night.

The early summer sun had not long been set but it was dark enough, though not all the lamps had been lit. He was startled by a movement to his right as he entered an alleyway, but soon recognised Grantaire who had obviously been about some business. In truth, he had not noticed that the man had been absent from the Musain when he left. He had certainly been there earlier, chewing poor Lesgle's ear off at length as was his habit.

“Good night, Grantaire,” he called, for no other reason than he intended not to stop. Grantaire was having none of it.

“So early?” he called out. “Who would believe that the young should require so much beauty sleep! Although perhaps it is not to sleep but to some sweeter rest that your feet now take you?” Grantaire grinned at him, leaning casually against the peeling plaster of the wall, half in shadow.

“Save your breath for the cooling of your supper, Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed in reply. “I am in no mood for your words tonight.” He made as though to move past the man, but Grantaire did not make way for him.

“And what would the great Enjolras have of me instead?” Grantaire’s eyes sparkled with amusement, an expression which irritated Enjolras though he could not discern why. “How better might I serve thee if not with my words? What possible use might you have of my mouth?”

Enjolras frowned, unsure of Grantaire’s tone, or of his intention. It felt like a jibe, but there was no cruelty in the man’s face. If anything, there seemed to be an underlying softness to Grantaire’s eyes. He had seen, or thought he had seen, such glimpses of expression before, but often these were vanished before Enjolras could look again, replaced with barbed words from a sharp, if somewhat wine-loosened tongue.

In any case, Enjolras was in no mood to riddle out Grantaire’s meaning. He was tired and wanted only to find his bed.

“That you might stop it with the cork of your bottle so that other men might think!” he snapped, glaring now at the obstacle that came between him and his rest.

To his increased frustration the man barked a laugh. Enjolras felt his temper rise. He could not abide to be laughed at, and for some reason Grantaire’s laugh bit all the harder at his heart. He glared, flexing his fingers. Oh, how he wished to shake the man that stood before him; shake and slap some sense into him!

“You have no need of thinking, my dear Enjolras,” Grantaire continued with a smirk. “You need only show your face and grown men fall to their knees.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, trying to regulate his heartbeat, determined not to let those words reach him.

“You have only to clear your throat and the King himself breaks out his ear trumpet. Flutter your eyelashes, Enjolras, and the National Guard will swoon at your feet –”

Grantaire’s discourse was brought to a sudden halt by a sharp slap delivered across his right cheek.

Finally the man was silent. Enjolras, lost to his fury, stared down at Grantaire. He braced himself, expecting retaliation. He was aware of Grantaire's reputation, of his skill as a boxer and his talent for single stick. He knew Grantaire was more than capable of breaking a man's leg - much less his nose - and so he prepared to defend himself.

He expected that they would fight. What he did not expect was for Grantaire to turn his head back to face Enjolras, for pin-point focused brown-eyes to settle upon him, and for Grantaire to utter only a word in response to Enjolras's violent outburst.

“Again.”

Enjolras wasn’t fully in his own body. He was angry and appalled and Grantaire was just standing there, apparently calm, a bright pink mark on his cheek. He was looking right into Enjolras’s eyes.

The crack of the second slap sounded before Enjolras was even aware he had raised his hand. His palm burned, a sure sign that he had delivered the blow. This time, Grantaire’s face remained where it had turned after being struck, cheek blazing, eyes cast down.

Then the man sank to his knees, resting at Enjolras’s feet. Enjolras stared at him. This whole situation had gone far beyond his understanding. His anger still trembled beneath the surface of his skin, but there was something else, another energy that claimed him, another power that hummed through his veins.

“Again, Enjolras,” Grantaire’s voice was throaty and low, and a chill ran down Enjolras’s spine. “Hit me again.”

Enjolras swung with purpose, backhanding Grantaire across the left side of his face. His ring caught in the soft flesh of Grantaire’s cheek, and a bubble of red rose like a tear below the man’s eye. At the sight of the blood, a fresh wave of anger took hold of Enjolras. What strange game was this? What did Grantaire mean by grovelling on his knees as though before the Virgin Mary and begging for his hand?

He reached forward, seizing Grantaire by the hair, pulling his head up so that he could see into the eyes of this man, this creature before him, as though to see into his soul. Grantaire stared back, eyes glassy and cheeks burning.

“Please hit me again, oh bright centre of the universe,” he whispered, not taking his eyes from Enjolras’s burning gaze. This time Enjolras hit him as hard as he could.

“Be silent,” he spat, releasing Grantaire's hair. Enjolras was breathing hard, his hand stung, but there was a strange intoxication to be found there. To stand above a man, your marks upon him, and at his request no less. For Grantaire had asked him, had he not? That first blow, for that he should apologise, and it appalled him that he had struck one of his friends, his brothers, in such a manner. But he would think on that later; for now Grantaire was still kneeling at his feet, and the brown-eyed man continued to stare evenly, reverently, as though god himself stood above him.

Enjolras was hard. He became aware of it a moment before Grantaire dropped his gaze, focusing instead on the very obvious shape of Enjolras’s trousers. Perhaps Enjolras imagined it, but it appeared in the dim lamplight of that alley that Grantaire swept his lower lip with his tongue.

Enjolras tried to push that thought away. It was a familiar but unwelcome thought. His body was treacherous but he usually refused to give in to its lusts. He needed to go, he needed to leave, to put space between himself and the temptation on its knees before him. However, before he could instruct his legs to do his will, words poured forth from the subject of his body’s attentions.

“I would have you make better use of my mouth then,” Grantaire had not taken his eyes from the bulge in Enjolras’s trousers, but neither had he moved towards or away. He remained on his knees, staring fixedly. Enjolras looked back at him, unsure how to respond, his mind clouded somewhere between anger and lust. He was angry at the way Grantaire looked up at him, that he allowed Enjolras to strike him so without any recrimination or retribution.

After a moment’s silence, Grantaire leant forward, wide eyes fixed upon Enjolras as he mouthed at the tall man’s trousers. Enjolras closed his eyes, inhaling sharply at the intimate contact.

“Irrumabe faciem meam,” Grantaire pronounced deliberately, slowly. At his words Enjolras stifled a moan.

He could take it no more. He reached down, vaguely aware that the brunet on his knees flinched slightly, before he realised that the hand that fell was not to knock him away, but came only to unbutton the trousers that stood between him and his prize. It was the very opposite of denial, a silent acquiescence from Enjolras, and once permission was given Grantaire fell to the task with alacrity.

Enjolras could not help but groan when Grantaire took him into his mouth. If the man’s tongue was clever with words, it was nothing to what it was doing right now. Enjolras was, until this moment, untouched, and the sensations coursing through him were unfamiliar. He looked down, startled by the sight of Grantaire who had taken him down, almost to the root, apparently without concern.

He clutched at Grantaire’s hair, feeling the man freeze beneath his touch, and now he could thrust forward into that warmth. His hips moved as though unbidden and Grantaire hummed, an unaccountably happy noise, at being used so.

“Grantaire!” the word spilled forth from his mouth as a gasp. There was a tightening in his gut and his hands knotted in the brown curls and the _sound_ Grantaire made at that point sent Enjolras spinning over the edge, coming hard down the brunet’s throat. From start to finish the act had taken bare moments, Enjolras’s virgin flesh unaccustomed as it was to carnal pleasures.

Enjolras’s legs were shaking and he leant back against the wall behind him. He released his tight grip on Grantaire’s hair, groaning slightly. The man in question remained on his knees for a moment, head bowed. Enjolras reached out to him but Grantaire shied away.

“Grantaire,” he began, not entirely sure what to say, but Grantaire shook his head, struggling to get to his feet.

“It is fine, Enjolras,” came the muttered response. 

“But, surely –” Enjolras had no idea what he was trying to say. His mind was fogged with confusion and the remnants of pleasure. He reached out again but was waved away with laugh that sounded far too bitter for his ears.

“The touch of Euryalus is more than sufficient,” he muttered. He braced himself against the wall, chest heaving, not looking at Enjolras although the taller man wished he would. Then, with a final deep breath, he stood upright on surprisingly steady feet. He turned his back to walk away, pausing only at the entrance of the alley.

“I wish you good luck with your thinking, Enjolras,” he called over his shoulder before sauntering away, leaving Enjolras alone with only the memory of that mouth; that clever mouth with its twisted tongue, and how good it felt to be buried within its warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> This was good fun to write, not only for Cat's delicious (and somewhat unexpected) prompt but also for going over the brick again and having a fine old natter about it.
> 
> The Latin translates as "fuck my face"
> 
> And if you want a good laugh at just how much of a plagiarist Hugo really was, look up the death of Nisus and Euryalus in the Aeneid. It's spooky.


End file.
